You’re only as good as your words no one listens to.

After kind-of intently listening to my children for the last thiscloseto 8 years, I consider myself to be an avid semi-listener. Like cliff notes, I mostly have a firm grasp of the topic you’re spent 3 hours of our 3 hour drive detailing. There’s no real reason for them to know that I learned to sleep with my eyes open 5 years ago.

Here’s the thing, while generally they are speaking in code recognized only by Tom Cruise and senior Scientology overlords, I am actually saying important things like:

“Hey, you’re about to get hit by a car.”


“Yes, and that car too. In fact, all of the cars are driving in your general direction. You’re seriously running in a parking lot.”




“Fine. Fine. Run in the parking lot. NO, SERIOUSLY…STOP RUNNING!”

and then my face combusts and through clenched teeth, I whisper-spit, “Get. In. The. CAR!”

And then we all go home and mommy cries.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying different methods of getting the children to acknowledge my existence and none of them work. I’ve tried the Mother of the Child/Mother of the Earth method: “Hey, I’m coming to you from a place of promise and understanding, OK? I just, I feel like you need to truly accept the words I’m about to say because, it’s important that we communicate authentically; soul to soul. So, could you please stop throwing Crispix at me? It’s a fair request and, if you search your heart, I think you’ll agree. Namaste, child of my loins.”

I have a corneal abrasion from breakfast cereal.

I’ve tried the Batshit Crazy: “If you put your underwear under the couch one more time, I’m going to burn your underwear outside in a bonfire that can be seen from space and I will invite every single one of your school friends over to watch your underwear burn. And, I won’t even get a local fire permit. I will illegally burn your drawers on the front lawn. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Underwear? Still under my couch.

I’ve tried The Interventionist: If you promise to go to cookie rehab today, I will drop all cookie-related charges. I will not charge you for breaking into my secret stash or, for the rug you ruined when you turned on the food processor in the living room…without the lid. I’m willing to let this all go, but, you have to stop hiding and shame eating cookies. Can you do that? Can you make this promise to me today? Are you ready to come with me right now? Let go of the Oreos. We love you and we want you to LIVE…without diabetes.

Yeah, there are still cookies all over this bitch.

What’s a woman without options, but possibly with bi-polar disorder to do? That’s right…you give up.

I was tired of the sound of my own voice anyway.

Namaste, motherfuckers.


  1. Hilarious and true.
    Why do they think they are invincible?

    • I have never feared anything as much as I fear parking lots filled of cars. And parking lots at schools. Don’t even get me started.

  2. I hate that my kids are always trying to kill themselves in parking lots. You have to know I will be looking under your couch if I ever again cross the threshold of your home.


    Thank you so much for making me feel normal. I feel like I’m surrounded by perfect mothers with perfect children and I’m just wondering, “where are all the other me’s?”

  4. I feel like my kids don’t even appreciate the fact that I have worked so hard to perfect the Batshit Crazy approach. It’s like they don’t even care. Ingrates!

    • Right? Don’t they realize how many tireless years of previous generations’ poor parenting cultivated the perfect Batshit Crazy method we use/love today? They have no respect for generations that came before.

  5. Target- where all children go to torment their mothers! Namaste, mf’ers.

  6. “Yeah, there are still cookies all over this bitch” you sounded so ‘street.’ Do the kids say that anymore? ha!! Oh, how you make me spit on my keyboard, and I love you for it. Namaste, mama….Namaste! Wait doesn’t that mean fuck off? 🙂

  7. I’m a believer in Batshit Crazy. But it only works if you *actually* burn their underwear on the front lawn. I bet you’d have an underwear free couch for at least a week! 😉

  8. I usually skip straight to the lawn bonfire, and I thought *that* was why they stopped listening to me. It sounds like they’d have stopped listening to me no matter what, so I feel much better about the batshit craziness now.

  9. Glad it’s not just me. I’ve been crazy woman yelling. I’ve been get-on-their-level-share-from-the-heart. Both just as effective, i.e., not effective at all. Thanks for the laugh.

  10. I am each of those three versions of parent too. And sadly, one is no more effective than the other, both in stopping my children’s shitastic behavior and in making me feel like I have the parenting skills of a tin can.

  11. Love this post. I actually spit my coffee out laughing. This is so me screaming after my son in the parking lot. I grit the teeth and the spit threat never works for me. Dragging him by his collar of his coat because he won’t hold my hand is our normal with him kicking and screaming. People stare, I wave with an overly nice grin on my face like we are perfectly fine and my child isn’t acting like I am murdering him. All the while my 6 month old daughter is in the other arm. I so can relate.

  12. OMG I had no idea I was not the only one to perfect the “whisper spit” method! So glad it totally didn’t work for you either and we can fail together!. Funner than shite, when the kid of 3 turns to me or the other kid of 3 and through clenched teeth whisper shout spits some command or other. Didn’t really catch what it was…

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